


Beginning to End

by ama



Series: Soldiers and Spies [1]
Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: Established Relationship, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:55:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27264592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/ama
Summary: Relius strikes up a friendship with Kamet when he arrives in Attolia. It's good politics, of course, to keep such a valuable source of information close--but it quickly becomes more than that. Neither of them have had true family for a long time.[Spoilers for Return of the Thief.]
Relationships: Kamet/Costis Ormentiedes, Relius & Kamet, Relius/Teleus (Queen's Thief)
Series: Soldiers and Spies [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1983791
Comments: 8
Kudos: 77





	Beginning to End

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in my larger Soldiers and Spies verse, but can be read as a standalone fic.

_I shot an arrow into the air,  
_ _It fell to earth, I knew not where;  
_ _For, so swiftly it flew, the sight  
_ _Could not follow it in its flight._

_I breathed a song into the air,  
_ _It fell to earth, I knew not where;  
_ _For who has sight so keen and strong,  
_ _That it can follow the flight of song?_

_Long, long afterward, in an oak  
_ _I found the arrow, still unbroke;  
_ _And the song, from beginning to end,  
_ _I found again in the heart of a friend._

— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  
The young man who greeted him at the door was thinner than Relius remembered—a point of concern, as he had been slight already—and infinitely more tired. He needed a shave and a haircut, and had none of the easy confidence, even arrogance, he had had as a slave. But he was dressed in fine Eddisian silks of soft lilac, stood straighter than before, and his neck was bare.

“Good morning, secretary,” he said. He had the faintest hint of a Mede accent—the consonants in his words merely loomed over the vowels instead of swallowing them up.

“Not that anymore,” Relius demurred. “Baron Orutus is the secretary of the archives—I remain at court merely as a friend of Their Majesties. May I join you?”

“Of course,” Kamet said, stepping aside to let him pass, although his surprise was evident on his face. “Please, take a seat.”

Relius sat down on a padded bench and watched as Kamet hesitated before doing the same. He wondered if the man had ever sat in one of the more comfortable chairs in the room rather than the simple, functional desk chair—even once, when his master was out of the room. He guessed not. Kamet’s sharp eyes flickered from Relius’s hands to his face down to the luxurious carpet beneath their feet, but his expression did not change.

“There are some questions you might answer for us, Kamet. I am here to ask if you would be willing to do so. The king wants you to know that you are under no obligation. You are his guest, free to come and go as you please, and welcome to stay—in the palace, or anywhere in Attolia—for as long as you like.” There was a cynical tilt to his lips that did not fade, and Relius frowned. “You are thinking of driving a stiff bargain. Don’t. You will do better to trust the king—he will see you amply rewarded.”

“He was a very pleasant friend to have as a kitchen boy. As a king…” Kamet shrugged. 

He had publicly rejected Melheret’s offer of protection and privately revealed Mede secrets to the king the night before—but Relius had been watching in the crowd when Kamet learned that his life had been shattered over a lie, a lie carefully crafted by his friend. It was a still-smarting wound, and a man who was less clever or more vindictive might be tempted to bleed Eugenides a little in return.

“He’s very tenderhearted,” Relius assured him. “He’ll feel quite bad about it as he cuts you up into little pieces and feeds you to the wolves.”

Kamet chuckled, and then looked at Relius’s face and reconsidered. Relius nodded.

“I myself would walk across hot coals for him. For either of them.”

The tip of Kamet’s middle finger rubbed together with his thumb—an unconscious gesture, Relius thought, from a man who had not had the luxury of taking up space by pacing, or making sound by drumming his fingers on a desk. He waited as the erstwhile slave sized him up. It did not take long.

Kamet nodded decisively.

“What is it you would like to know?”

Relius smiled.

“If I am to list things, we will be here all day. What can you give us?”

“I can tell you who _did_ get the governorship of Hemsha, the names of his staff, the names of all the other governors and the generals and the admirals, as well as the captains of at least half the fleet, and which ones are married and the names of their mistresses and their secretaries and the kind of wine they like for dinner. I could tell you about the emperor and the prince in every particular, and I assume my knowledge of the palaces at Ianna-Ir and Sidussa, as well as the cities themselves, is more up-to-date than yours. Do you have maps?”

“Some,” Relius said. He couldn’t quite hide his glee, but he tried not to display it too obviously. “Not good ones.”

“I can append them.” He hesitated. “I can tell you how the troops are organized, what their supplies are, and how much they cost—I know nothing of how they fight.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“Good. Costis seemed to think I had some martial training. It nearly proved a fatal mistake.”

“Ah. No, we have the Mede ambassador to thank for our knowledge of their fighting style. I am very intrigued to hear the entire tale of your journey. It was much longer than anticipated—I’m assuming there are some interesting reasons for that.”

“In hindsight, perhaps interesting is the right word,” Kamet said with a faint smile. “At the time…”

“Frustrating?” Relius suggested. “Infuriating? Terrifying?”

“So, so, so.”

“All the best stories are like that. Now, if you will excuse me, I’d like to give my king the good news, and we will arrange for you to have some meetings with the right people. In the meantime, His Majesty has asked me to repeat his assurance that you are welcome to explore the palace and the city as you like. If I may make a suggestion,” he said delicately. “The gardens are well-guarded and it is not difficult to find a little privacy among them. The public rooms of the library are very comfortable, also.”

In other words, those were the best places to avoid awkward extended conversations with Melheret or his spies.

“Thank you,” Kamet said, after a brief pause in which his understanding was made evident. “I remember the gardens of Attolia as one of the most pleasant parts of my last visit. I look forward to seeing them again.”

“Good.” Relius and made his goodbyes. He paused at the door. “Speaking of your last visit—the megaron at Ephrata has been fully repaired.”

Kamet’s lips pressed together.

“I am very glad to hear it,” he said in a bland voice.

“If I had been present,” Relius continued congenially. “They would not have taken their eyes off you for half a second. I boxed Teleus’s ears when I heard.”

For the first time that morning, Kamet’s face was split with a genuine smile—the smile of a man who had just won a point in a game he was very, very good at.

***

Relius was in and out of meetings as Kamet spoke to the various barons that made up the queen’s advisory councils. The former secretary was indeed generous with his information—he talked until he was hoarse, and repeated information as often as it was needed, although not without the occasional sharp look. He disliked incompetence, and as a free man felt no need to hide that fact. It made Relius smile more than once, although he tried not to let it show.

He did not know how Kamet spent his time outside of meetings, though, and chose not to find out. Baron Orutus was more defensive over his sources of information than Baron Hippias had been, and besides, Relius was no longer the master of spies. It was a bad habit of a spymaster to rely on whispers. A normal man, if he wanted to know more of someone, could ask. So he did. He knew that Kamet had never attended one of the public dinners, preferring to eat from a tray in his room. One night, Relius sent him a message, asking if he might like to dine in Relius’s quarters instead that evening, and Kamet accepted.

They spoke very politely about books and flowers for a few moments. As it turned out, there was little need for Relius to catch up on Kamet’s doings, because he didn’t _do_ very much. By the time they had finished the first course, he knew all he needed to. He asked, instead, if Kamet would tell him the full story of how he left the Mede Empire, and Kamet agreed.

“How did Costis approach you?”

“I walked right into him,” Kamet admitted. “My eyes—I don’t see across distances very well. If I had known he was an Attolian, I would have taken a different path. But I didn’t see him until he was close enough to stop me and tell me to meet him by the docks.”

“And you wouldn’t have gone?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not? You don’t find our hospitality sufficient?” Relius asked with a smile.

Kamet did not respond right away. He looked down at his plate and sliced at the haunch of lamb until it resembled the single-bite servings placed before the king. He glanced at Relius’s hands, and then at his face, and his resolve hardened.

“If someone had offered to take you away from here, you might have two good hands,” he said bluntly. “So could the king, if someone told him that he could enjoy a happy retirement from being the Thief of Eddis, after he gave that amulet to his queen.”

“So, so, so. You did not leave the palace right away. You went to your friend Laela, and she told you…”

“That Nahuseresh was dead, poisoned, and I realized it could only have been his brother or the emperor who poisoned him. In the Mede Empire, when a man is poisoned, his slaves are put to death as a matter of principle, and tortured extensively first. The only way around the more gruesome experience is to have one confess—or otherwise take the blame. I had access to a bit of money and the freedom to wander the city unsupervised, which is more than I could say for any of the other slaves in my master’s household. The best I could do for them was to flee. And also, I did not want to die,” he added in a matter-of-fact voice. “I thought I probably would, at the hands of the guards or the Attolian soldiers surely lying in wait for me. But it was worth a roll of the dice, to quote your king.”

Kamet continued to talk throughout the meal, with occasional prompting from Relius. Several times, though, Relius sensed that he was holding something back. Once or twice he was evasive about his movements. He spoke very delicately about Attolia, as though he were struggling to choose the right words—and he hardly spoke of Costis at all. He did not deny that Costis had been there, or pretend to have orchestrated the entire trip himself, but without noticing, he slipped into calling Costis “the Attolian,” and included so little embellishments about the young soldier that he might as well have been talking about one of the stuffed practice dummies down on the training grounds.

He did, however, have several passionate things to say about a lion’s den, and took Relius to task for the utter lunacy of Attolian soldiers. Relius blamed Teleus.

They had finished eating by the time Kamet backtracked and asked Relius if he had read the Immakuk and Ennikar tales. Relius confessed that he had heard of them, but never read the originals. They had each drunk several glasses of wine at that point, and Kamet had relaxed and was lounging in his chair. He tilted his head and looked down at his glass, watching the remnants gleam in the lamplight.

“We did something very foolish, then,” he said. “And there’s no getting away from the fact that it was foolish, but it makes more sense if you’ve heard the tale of Immakuk and Ennikar and the Land of the Dead.”

“I would love to.”

Kamet straightened and closed his eyes as he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and exhaled. The lines on his face smoothed over, and he touched his slender fingers to his lower lip. His voice was different when he spoke—not the exaggerated cant of an amateur poet, but lilting, musical, with a slight hush and a tone of unashamed reverence.

He was really quite attractive, Relius thought. He had mastered the art of becoming invisible, and when his face was blank, his posture hunched, and his hair shorn close, it was difficult to notice. But haircuts had evidently been scarce on the journey here, and Kamet’s hair fell in dark waves that teased the back of his neck and curled around his ears. He had fine cheekbones and full lips, and when he spoke of poetry, his eyes were alight with interest. If Relius looked close enough (possibly too close, but Kamet didn’t say anything), he could even make out a smattering of freckles on his cheeks. That was unexpected—he would not have guessed skin so dark would show freckles—but undoubtedly charming.

It was probably the wine sparking his interest, but he was not drunk enough for it to be _only_ the wine. And after all, why shouldn’t he be interested? He had gotten over initial fears that his scars and his maimed hands would drive away potential partners, and not yet reached the point where he might worry the same about his age. The only stumbling block might be what he would term professional obligations. If Relius avoided flirtations with everyone who came under his suspicion, he would have a very sad love life indeed, but he hadn’t even considered Kamet on his first stay in Attolia because seducing a man who was _actively_ attempting to destabilize the throne still seemed unwise… Then again, Kamet was a free man now, with no apparent loyalty towards his former master, and Relius was not the secretary of the archives.

“That was lovely,” he said when Kamet finished his poem. It was the truth, even if he had only listened with half an ear.

“Thank you.”

“I am intrigued as to what this has to do with your journey, but it is getting late. Perhaps we ought to continue another time.”

“Oh, yes.” Kamet glanced at the clock. “I’ve been talking for a long time. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“There is no need to apologize. Really—I’m stopping you mostly so I can be assured of your company another night.” He touched Kamet’s arm lightly and smiled. “But far be it from me to chase you out, if you’d prefer to stay.”

Kamet’s response was almost comical. A cheap actor on the stage could not have portrayed shock more obviously—his jaw went slack and the red undertones of his skin darkened in a deep flush.

“I don’t—I’m sorry—I ought—”

He stood, looking everywhere except at Relius. Relius stood, too. His hand slipped down to grasp Kamet’s, and he patted it kindly.

“Kamet,” he said. The young man looked up at him, still deep in the throes of embarrassment. “There is no need for dishonesty to ruin what could become a very fulfilling friendship for both of us. I am not so easily offended.”

“Oh.” Kamet considered this for a moment. He took a breath and straightened his shoulders. “No, thank you,” he said firmly. “But I did appreciate dinner and your company.”

“As did I.”

Relius dropped his hand and led him to the door with a slight bow. They made their farewells, and Relius returned to his bedroom. He dropped on the bed with a sigh and closed his eyes. Maybe he would go see Teleus tonight, he thought idly. It had been several weeks… He turned his head and looked at the clock on the desk. No. It was late—Teleus would certainly guess that Relius was only there because he was licking his wounds, and if he was in a mood, he might even _say_ so. His pride could only take so many blows in one night.

***

They met again two nights later. Kamet talked about his visit to Koadester. Relius was fascinated by his description of the stepwell and the temple; Kamet seemed amused, but described it for him in some detail, seeing as it was unlikely that Relius would ever have the opportunity to be a tourist in the Mede Empire himself. He moved on to an encounter with slavers, and Relius couldn’t help the bark of laughter that came out when he mentioned Costis hiding the king’s seal in his mouth.

“I had no idea what it was at the time,” Kamet admitted sheepishly. “I thought he was an idiot for risking both our lives for a piece of jewelry—but if we had left it, our bodies would be at the bottom of the Middle Sea by now.”

“Some friendly god was on your side,” Relius said, waving his hand. “Some half-dozen, it sounds like. What did you tell the slavers?”

They were sidetracked briefly when Kamet discussed the crossing of the Taymets, and Relius gave a brief lecture on mountains, the traversing of them, and how they had affected the development of the Little Peninsula. Kamet seemed attentive and admitted that he did not know as much about the peninsula as he should—Relius promised to loan him some books. Then they returned to his narrative.

Without warning, though, Kamet’s enthusiasm flagged. He was perfectly cheerful talking about arriving in Zaboar and finding a potter willing to give them a ride—and then it seemed as though he suddenly remembered what came next. His words were more businesslike his tone duller as he recounted an altercation with some brigands at an old mill.

“And then…” Kamet’s voice faltered. He looked down at his hands. “Then Costis stepped on the well cover, and it broke. He fell. The miller told me it was dry, and I… I ran. I—” He bit his lip. “Stupid. I ran for a long time, and then I stood there in the road and stared back like I expected him to follow. When I had just left him to his death.”

“It is not an easy thing, to lose a friend,” Relius said gently. “The mind is not rational about these things. And besides—he _did_ follow you eventually.”

Kamet shook his head.

“No, I went back.”

“You did?”

“Yes. After I went on to Zaboar, I just—I began to wonder if he was truly dead, or merely dying. Injured. So I went back. And as it turned out, he wasn’t injured at all. He had landed on the dog.”

“You went back,” Relius repeated, eyeing Kamet keenly. “That was a very noble thing to do.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would. Haven’t you told me, time and time again, that you never meant to go to Attolia? That you were trying to escape Costis at every turn? There you were, free of him, in a port city outside the empire where you had every opportunity to begin whatever life you wanted, and you went back. That’s a brave thing.”

Kamet shook his head again. His head was bowed, and after a moment his shoulders hunched. A tear dripped off his chin. Relius hastily shifted from his chair into the one closest to Kamet. He put one hand on his back and produced a handkerchief with the other.

“There, now,” he said kindly. “It’s all right. It’s all all right. In the past now, isn’t it? You’re both here and safe. Nothing to cry over.”

“I’m sorry,” Kamet sniffled. “I…” He accepted the handkerchief and wiped at his eyes impatiently. “I lied. Every moment of the journey, I had been lying to him, and there he was, dead, and I could not remember a moment of honesty, and then he was alive again and I was _still lying._ I—” He swallowed. “I am a liar and a coward and now I know it. And it has brought me absolutely nothing.”

He twisted the handkerchief between his hands, and Relius’s heart twisted in sympathy.

“Kamet,” he said. “Two years ago I was in the queen’s prison, nothing more than a bastard and a fool duped by a woman I had known for a paltry six months. My career lay in tatters around me, to say nothing of my life, and I thought—” Unexpectedly, his voice wavered. “I thought that someone very dear to me had been lost. He had undoubtedly been lost to me, disgraced as I was, but to think that the world still stood even though he did not walk upon it—it was almost more than I could bear.”

Kamet did not respond. His head tilted, and there was a hint of curiosity in the curve of his brow.

“In such circumstances, there are no brave men and no cowards. Gods only know why some are given the opportunity to heal and some are not—but you _have_ been given that opportunity. Do not squander it on misplaced guilt.”

Kamet sniffed. He nodded.

“Thank you,” he said hoarsely. He cleared his throat. “Thank you. Something about this place—I don’t know why I have been so lachrymose lately.”

He wiped at his eyes again.

“He had landed on the dog,” he said, resuming his narrative just where he left off. “But he fell ill when we reached Zaboar, and there were rumors of plague, so we had to find shelter with another escaped slave for a few days. Then we went down to the harbor and found a ship with an Attolian captain, and Costis showed the seal, and then… we were here.”

“So.”

“Yes.”

The rooms were quiet for a moment as they both thought about Kamet’s very dramatic arrival in Attolia. Relius’s own memory of that day was blurred, tinted with his terror for the queen. After a moment, a half-smile stole across Kamet’s face.

“You have no idea how I felt when the king came into the throne room,” he said wryly. “I could not believe it was him at first, and then… it felt like the world tilted under me. I thought for sure that both Costis and I were to be granched for the inconvenience.”

“I know the feeling,” Relius said. “Your pronouncement called quite a stir, you know.”

“I know,” Kamet said in a tone of consternation. “I was afraid Costis would say something foolish, and I had to speak before—”

“No, I don’t mean the timing. I mean your use of the word _annux.”_

Kamet frowned.

“I thought it was a sign of respect in Attolia to use the archaic.”

“It is. And the archaic for king is _basileus.”_

“Prince?”

“A prince over the people, from the days when each city ruled over itself, and the country was a collection of many small kings. The term _annux_ refers to a king who ruled over them. You were correct,” he clarified. “His Majesty is indeed annux now, and has been since late last summer, when the monarchs of Eddis and Sounis swore themselves to him. But…”

He sat back in his chair, wrapped his cloak around him, and considered his words.

“There is a sort of… polite fiction maintained in Attolia that the king is a figurehead. He never wanted to wrest sovereignty from my queen. He has helped her achieve her goals, and achieved his own in the process, but he pretends always that his actions are happenstance, or the little schemes of the Thief of Eddis. He pretends that his ascension to annux is a matter of formality, that of course he would never wield the authority that the treaties give him. I don’t believe that any of the monarchs truly believe this, but there are others—our barons, mostly, and the foreign ambassadors, and probably the nobility of Eddis and Sounis as well—who would prefer that it were true. We have gone on as if Attolis Eugenides were any other king, and then we learned of the queen’s ailment… Would Attolia survive, with no queen and any other king? I don’t know. No one knew. We had one moment of relief, knowing that the queen would live, and then you appeared, like the gods’ herald in a play, and called out _annux!_ ” He spread his hands.

Kamet looked uncomfortable with this image of himself, and he shifted in his chair.

“They already knew he was extraordinary,” he mumbled. “I saw them when he entered the room. They knew.”

“Yes, but knowing it and accepting it are two different things. And we need the king to be an annux, Kamet. We cannot withstand the Medes with a basileus. You think we can’t withstand them with an annux, either?” he added at Kamet’s doubtful look.

“I hope you can,” he said quietly. “Truly, I do.”

Relius smiled.

“Thank you for that much, at least.”

Kamet glanced at the window and then the clock. It was late, even later than the previous visit. But he did not make a move to leave. He was still clutching Relius’s handkerchief. He spread it over his knee and pushed the wrinkles out of the fabric. It was a nice handkerchief, a gift from the queen—not her own work, but that of an even more skilled attendant. Kamet’s slender fingers traced the ivy vines twisting in the corners.

“When you left the prisons,” he said slowly. “Did you tell him?”

It took Relius a moment to return to that part of the conversation. His heart softened—and then his nose itched, as it often did when he sensed a secret. Not a very well-kept secret, in this instance.

“He already knew.” Relius exhaled heavily. “I used to say I reserved fidelity for my queen, not my lovers. In the end, I failed at both, and yet his companionship has been as constant and precious as…” He made a derisive sound and shook his head. “I won’t pretend to be a poet. No doubt you are better qualified to fill in the blanks. He knew, but I have been more conscientious about reminding him.”

Kamet nodded thoughtfully. He folded the handkerchief into halves and quarters, making sure the edges lined up perfectly and pressing down the folded side. He handed it back to Relius, and took a sip of wine to steady himself.

“You won’t tell me, I suppose, about everything you left out of your story,” Relius mused.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Kamet said primly, but his lips twisted in a dry smirk.

“You were rather complimentary towards my country, for someone who would never, under any circumstances, want to live here. On the other hand, you spoke very sparingly of Costis.”

Kamet’s defiant look faltered for a moment, and there was a gleam of white as he bit his lower lip. Then he cleared his throat and tilted his chin up.

“Costis is a royal favorite. I assume you already knew him.”

“I do know him, yes.”

“So? He fulfilled his duties very well. What else do you want to know?”

Relius struggled to suppress his smile. He had a strong suspicion that he had once spoken very similarly of the queen’s newest captain, when he was trying to compose a formal report on the man’s job performance without commenting on his (shapely) thighs or his (infuriating) devotion to a schedule that included many late-night training marches, even more inspections of the guard, and no debauchery with _anyone,_ let alone the secretary of the archives.

He likewise suspected that trying to push Kamet on this issue would not be productive. But then he had a flash of brilliance.

“Would you write it down for me?” he asked.

“What?”

“Your whole account—beginning to end. Write it down. You will have more time to include relevant context and details without worrying about boring me. If there are any parts of the story that seem embarrassing or outlandish, well, maybe they’ll come easier when you are writing alone in a room, with time to stop and start and change your language, than when I am immediately before you.”

“Yes,” Kamet said slowly. “Yes, I suppose I could do that… it may take some time, though. And if the librarians here are like any librarians I have ever known, they will begrudge the paper and ink.”

Relius waved his worries away.

“No matter. You’ll have everything you need.”

***

The next afternoon, Relius brought a bottle of wine and a bowl of fresh plums to Teleus’s office. He was feeling clingy, he supposed, after the unexpected reminder of those brief, terrible days when he had thought Teleus dead. He found him very much alive, albeit grumpy. The stalwart captain of the guard dedicated all of his attention to the paperwork before him and declined a plum without even looking.

Relius sat on his usual stool and took out a knife. He sliced a plum in half and dug the pit out on the blade. It slipped out easily, clattering in the bowl, and he made an exaggerated noise of appreciation at the first bite—followed by a soft “ugh” as some of the juice spilled out onto his hand. It was possible the fruit was slightly _over_ ripe. He set it down and tried to wipe the sticky trail off his cuff. Teleus snorted.

“Serves you right.”

“I came here,” he said in a wounded voice, “for companionship and affection, and thus far have found only ridicule.”

“Mm-hm.”

Teleus picked up the other half of the plum. He took a bite without looking at Relius—but his eyes were not moving back and forth over the paper in his other hand, either, and after a moment he looked up with the faintest hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. Relius’s heart was pierced with a love so acute it was painful, and he sat back and tugged at his cloak where it bunched to regain his composure.

“You weren’t at dinner last night,” Teleus said. “The king tried to pull his old ‘can’t remember the Mede ambassador’s name’ stunt and the Mede ambassador came _this_ close to calling him King Emipopolitus to his face. Then he saw the queen’s face and lost his nerve. Miracle he didn’t lose his dinner.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Relius said, declining to say that he had already heard the details from a half-dozen crowing courtiers. “I was dining last night with Kamet Who-Called-Eugenides-the-Great-King.”

Teleus blinked.

“Ah,” he said. “He has decided to stay in Attolia, then?”

“I don’t know if he’s quite made up his mind yet.”

“Gods all, with a name like that, what else is he going to do?” Relius shrugged noncommittally, and his friend’s eyes narrowed. “Relius. He _did_ choose that name for himself, didn’t he?”

“Sometimes these things happen naturally,” he said in a vague way.

“And sometimes they have help.”

Relius grinned. Teleus sighed.

“Fine, put your thumb on the scale, and don’t complain to me if any mischief comes of it.”

“We’ll see.”

“Didn’t you dine with him already, earlier this week?”

Relius shrugged.

“He’s been telling me about his escape from the empire. It was a very long story.”

“And before that, you spoke to him on the king’s behalf.”

“Aside from the servants, I am the only member of the court who had looked him in the eye on his last visit,” Relius said, puzzled at the sulkiness in Teleus’s voice. “Of course the king asked me to speak to him—why should you care? Are you still sore over the mess at Ephrata? Need I remind you it was _entirely_ your fault?”

“Spare me another lecture on Ephrata!” Teleus said, pulling more paperwork towards him in defiance. “I only meant that it seems you are putting a great deal of effort into keeping him here, and I would have thought a temporary stay would suit you better, anyway. Save you the awkwardness in the long run.”

It took Relius a moment to puzzle out his meaning, but the red tinge on the tips of Teleus’s ears and the back of his neck clued him in. He _had_ decided, after the disaster of his last long-term affair, that he would keep his romances brief—to keep himself from becoming too comfortable and therefore careless—with one notable exception. He burst into startled laughter, and the blush darkened further.

“You have nothing to be jealous of on _that_ score, old bear,” Relius said, stroking his forearm. “I have reason to believe his affections are already engaged by a young man more in your line of work.”

“Gossipmonger,” Teleus tossed at him, although he seemed mollified. He turned over a schedule and let out a short huff. “You know, I had my _own_ plans for Costis,” he grumbled. “If the king had not provoked him—if he had not lost his temper—I was going to promote him to the Fourth within a month. He’d be well on his way to centurion by now. And where is he instead?”

“At home in Pomea,” Relius said, raising his eyebrows. “Enjoying a well-deserved break after more than a year of service in a hostile foreign land and five months of what sounds to me like sleeping on rocks and eating desert rats seasoned with dirt. Do you begrudge him that?”

“No, except that I asked His Majesty if he wanted Costis back on the roster as a lieutenant or if I could make him centurion, properly—”

“Very generous of you, dear.”

“—and he said _we’ll see what happens when he returns._ Which makes me think that I might not be getting him back at all!”

“You think this is one of the king’s elaborate plots? First the House of Erondites falls, next the Captain of the Guard is driven to madness?”

“No, I don’t. And that’s the worst thing. He is so confoundedly good at making my life difficult even when he isn’t _trying.”_

“Poor Teleus.” His hand danced up Teleus’s arm, across his shoulder, fingers scratching at the short hair by his ear before draping over the opposite side. “Do you know what would improve your mood?”

“Having this schedule done. And another one of those—I hardly had lunch.”

Relius pushed the bowl out of reach and shifted closer. He kissed the spot beneath Teleus’s ear and felt him grow still.

“Wine,” he murmured, scraping his teeth against the lobe of his ear. “And companionship. And affection.”

“That is always your suggestion,” Teleus said, but his body twisted, giving Relius just enough room to lift off the stool and settle in his lap, and Relius grinned in triumph.

“Yes, but have I ever been wrong?”

“No, I suppose not.”

***

The days slipped with a deceptive ease. Relius had few official duties in the palace now, except for being a companion to the queen. She complained that there were only so many reports she could read and the glib statements from her husband imparted only so much _knowledge_. After the first week had passed, she called Relius to her chambers at least once every other day to provide her with information in the manner she preferred. But she was still easily fatigued, and Relius was still a mere hanger-on in the court, and more often than not their conversation dissolved into talk of music, poetry, and idle gossip. There had been few opportunities for idle gossip in their relationship, and Relius cherished each smile or soft chuckle he could prompt.

Aside from that, he spent his time reading old histories, making lackluster notes for a book taking shape in the back of his mind, and studying Mede. That was his occupation one afternoon when Kamet appeared at his door.

“Kamet,” he said in greeting. “Tell me truly—do the Medes use this alphabet in their own country, or is this some sort of anti-reconnaissance trick they play on foreigners?”

Kamet leaned over his desk and peered at the pigeon-tracks that masqueraded as letters.

“Ah, _avaleen gheris dasturalhamil,”_ he said seriously, and Relius managed to recognize the title of his tome. “Of course that’s the true alphabet—here, don’t you see?” He pointed to the first line of the book and produced a burst of absolutely incomprehensible Mede, then smiled serenely at Relius’s glare.

“Go away.”

“I came to ask a favor.”

“The answer is no.”

Kamet laughed, and only the knowledge that he would _not_ have laughed a scant week ago kept Relius from saying something ruder.

“You said that you wanted to read my account of leaving Medea. Well, thus far I have not yet managed to leave the palace, and I will need more paper if I am to continue.”

“Oh, very well.”

Relius kept a box of paper on his desk, but there were only a few sheets left, and he needed to move things around in his drawers to fetch more. One of the displaced items was a box filled with small black stones.

“Are those paduk pieces?” Kamet asked. “I didn’t know it was played on this side of the sea.”

“Hm? Oh, yes—it’s not very popular, but a friend of mine taught me some years ago. Do you play?”

He hesitated.

“Once.”

“Only once?”

“It’s not the kind of game slaves usually play. But Nahuseresh had a set given to him by the emperor—jet and ivory, gilded mahogany, very pretty, very impressive. I watched him play against men he wanted to impress, sometimes, and once he thought it might be amusing to play against me. It stopped being amusing the moment it looked like I might win.”

“Ah. And you could not play with any of the other slaves?”

“No one else had an opportunity to observe the rules or enough free time for me to teach them.”

“I see.” He grinned. “So, you have the advantage when it comes to Mede, and I do when it comes to paduk. Would you like to play?”

Kamet laughed.

“Why not?”

Kamet helped him place the large, grid-lined board on the low table in the antechamber, and Relius rooted around in his cabinets until he found a dry white wine and a jar of pickled olives. Paduk was a civilized game, in his opinion, and one ought to play it in a civilized way. He set the box of black stones by what had become Kamet’s chair and a matching box of white stones by his own, and they settled in to play.

Kamet placed the first stone. At first he was cautious, testing his memory of the game, but Relius was quick, and soon they had picked up the pace until the soft patter and scrape of game pieces were as frequent as rain dropping on roof-tiles.

“I hope the court is making you feel welcome,” Relius said after a moment. Kamet shrugged.

“Everyone is very polite.”

“Polite but not friendly?”

“I am not the kind of man who goes around looking to make friends everywhere he goes.” He moved a stone and captured one of Relius’s pieces, and allowed a grin to flicker on his face. “Who is the king’s young attendant?”

“Hm? Oh—you mean Pheris Mostrus Erondites.”

Kamet paused.

“Erondites?”

“Yes. _You_ know the Erondites household fairly well, I expect.”

“I expect so. I didn’t realize he had a grandson.”

“The boy was a Susa until recently.” Relius gave a brief account of the king’s machinations, and Kamet huffed.

“So I am not the only piece on the board.”

“Indeed not.”

“The king seems fond of the boy, though.”

“I believe he is. He thinks of him as some sort of—good-luck charm, as it were.”

“What do you mean?”

“Pheris was with him when the queen was ill,” Relius said in an undertone. “The Thieves of Eddis are said to be superstitious lot, and the king himself is particularly pious.”

“Mm.” Kamet lost a piece, and frowned. “How does the young Erondites feel being an amulet rather than a living being?”

“I don’t know if he thinks one way or the other about it. His mother seemed to think he was a fool, by all accounts. He does have some understanding of what’s going on—enough to have passed secrets from his grandfather once, through his brother. But he hasn’t taken on any of the usual duties of an attendant, and his tutor reports that he can’t remember his lessons from one week to the next.”

“Hm.”

Relius waited, but Kamet did not elaborate, until the silence had stretched on too long. He looked up and Relius raised an eyebrow.

“Hm?”

“Have you ever heard of Senabid the slave?”

“No. Should I?”

“He’s a stock character in plays. There is a joke—one summer day, Senabid’s master says ‘Senabid! Fetch me an amphora of wine!’ ‘I’m sorry, master,’ Senabid says. ‘I don’t know what that is.’ His master tells him off for joking and sends him down to the kitchens, and Senabid returns with a jug of oil, then a jar of honey, then a bottle of goat’s milk. ‘I am sorry, master, that I am so stupid,’ he says in tears, and his master consoles him, because after all, the slave can’t help being a fool. For the rest of the day, the master keeps sending his other servants down to fetch his wine, but Senabid he leaves alone. That night, the master goes to the slave quarters and finds Senabid in his bed, drunk, surrounded by empty amphorae. ‘Senabid!’ the master cries. ‘How clever you are! You have finally found the wine!’”

“I see,” Relius snorted. “You think our pet Erondites has teeth.”

“He passed information once already.”

“Yes. But it does not follow that he is capable of malice. A man, or a child, or well-trained parrot, can listen and repeat things without being able to read, write, or scheme.”

“I didn’t accuse him of malice. I am only thinking that you and I both know what a blessing it can be, to be capable of more than others suspect.”

The game had continued, uninterrupted, and Relius now had a slight lead. He shrugged.

“I’ve barely spoken to the boy. You are free to pursue the theory, of course, although—” He hesitated. “There were… rumors. Baron Erondites was said to have a son with the same infirmity, who was very clever. The boy died. That in and of itself was not suspicious. Children die, especially children with health concerns. But—it was my duty to ferret out dark secrets, and the shadows surrounding the boy’s death are deep indeed. Baron Erondites put forth Pheris as his heir, and I don’t know if he would have done so if the boy were clever.”

“All the more reason to play Senabid, then.”

“I see.” Relius captured another piece and allowed himself a brief smirk. “Well, you are more than welcome to prove the boy’s intelligence, if you can. It was the king who insisted he have a tutor, and I’m sure he will be grateful to have it worth the effort. Why don’t we make it a wager?”

“I don’t gamble,” Kamet sniffed.

“Have you ever had anything to gamble with?”

“I _still_ don’t have anything to gamble with. I am a poor beggar living at the mercy of the king.”

“Who would shower you in silver if you asked for it. And anyway, your time and experience are as valuable as coin—as are mine. How is this: if you are wrong, then you will come back and give me Mede lessons. If I am wrong…” He paused and moved a piece. “Then I will give you paduk lessons.”

“I don’t need paduk lessons, thank you.”

Relius continued to build his side, and decided the wisest course of action was smug silence.

***

When Kamet returned, having introduced himself to the young Erondites in the library, it was his turn to be smug. Relius walked him through some of the finer points of paduk play, and in return, Kamet was gracious enough to help him master the Mede alphabet. At this rate, he might gain the fluency of a toddler before the invasion came.

***

As Kamet became more comfortable in Attolia, he also became a more in-demand dinner guest. Relius was affable, and occasionally took it upon himself to encourage a few connections; he was not so arrogant as to assume his friendship alone would be enough to keep Kamet in Attolia, and evidently he had not had the chance to speak to Costis before the young guard left for Pomea. It was good for him to make other friends. They added afternoon paduk games to their routine, rather than dinners.

It was Kamet who suggested that they might bring the game out to the small water garden near Relius’s quarters. The late-summer heat was more intense than Relius found comfortable, but he relented once Kamet revealed that he had resumed his friendship with the kitchen staff and could occasionally finagle watermelon ices from the obstinate and terrifying Brinna.

The game was a great benefit to conversation, Relius found. Kamet had been _willing_ to speak before, but he was always skittish when the conversation became too personal; he had avoided Relius for three days after crying in his rooms. With most of his attention focused on the gameplay, he could speak freely, and their conversation wandered through many topics. One afternoon, he even alluded to Relius’s fall from the secretary of the archives, a topic he had scrupulously avoided in the weeks since his arrival. Relius paused for a moment, one hand hovering over a stone. Then he shrugged.

“There was a woman,” he said, pushing the piece forward. “Elegant. Well-educated. Well-traveled. The kind of woman any man would want to _impress,_ not merely seduce. I thought I was being very careful, always going into town to see her, never speaking of politics, but even so— Kamet, that was rude.”

“Hm?”

“I am telling a very painful story, and here you are, capturing a piece? It’s very unsportsmanlike.”

“The gods are just, but man is not. I’ll trade a painful story of my own afterwards—if I haven’t beaten you by the time you’ve finished.”

“Very well.” Relius sat back and removed his cloak, folding it carefully and setting it on the dry grass by his feet. They were sitting underneath a tree, but the dry heat was beginning to creep into the shade. “The truth is, I am mostly self-educated and have traveled almost nowhere, except once or twice to Eddis or Sounis with Her Majesty, and while I _am_ as elegant as you see me, I did not feel quite so impressive before this extraordinary woman. I made up for it by sprinkling my conversation with information I had gleaned from the reports sent to me. On the face of it, nothing sensitive—yes, of course I know of Zabrisa, and I’ve heard the new temple is a sight to behold—no, I haven’t been to Magyar myself, but I have a friend who wrote to me about the spring plays. Little things, harmless, that together began to sketch out a map.”

He moved one piece, then another, slowly drawing Kamet’s stones into a trap. Kamet frowned and hesitated for a moment, his hand hovering over the board. He sighed and moved a different piece, resigning himself to the loss.

“And then she was gone. At first, I only moped around feeling sorry for myself. After a few days, it occurred to me that I may have been less discreet than I had thought. Then three of our spies were returned, beaten and maimed—and I had had no warning from any of the others. It was only then that I realized the full extent of my folly.”

He continued to press the advantage, but did not care to gloat.

“I spent… time in the prisons. I’m not sure how long. Four or five weeks. The king pardoned me first, and then the queen. But of course, by that time they had already begun deliberations on a new secretary of the archives, and I… was not myself.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the flutter of wings, and paused for a moment to watch a jay hopping through the grass. He had become very fond of birds, since those first few days of rest and recovery when the passage of them past his window were the only current events to occupy his thoughts.

“I am still not myself,” he murmured, distracted. “Or at least, not who I was.”

“I understand.”

Haltingly, Kamet told a story of his own misadventure in love. He downplayed the severity of the beating that had followed, but that in and of itself made Relius wince—a man who could speak of such savagery without flinching had scars that would not show on skin. And then they played in quiet companionship as the minutes stretched on. Nearly half an hour passed before Kamet spoke again.

“I have an impertinent question,” he asked slowly. “How was Baron Orutus chosen to be the secretary of the archives?”

His brow was furrowed slightly as he stared at the board. Relius brushed pollen off his trousers and crossed his legs.

“Baron Hippias was the first choice to replace me, but he died in his sleep a few months ago.”

“Poisoned?” Kamet said, mincing no words.

“He was an older man, and always very careful about the preparation of his food. It may have been heart failure. It may have been something else. We do not know. Baron Orutus was chosen after him. He is younger than Hippias, and less experienced, but he has a modest estate with no financial difficulties, and he was a younger son whose career in the navy brought him into wide contact with many useful people. His family has never rebelled against the queen, and you of all people should know why we trust him to be staunchly against the Medes.”

The current Baron Orutus was the younger brother of one of the barons hanged by Nahuseresh at Ephrata. Kamet’s frown deepened.

“No,” he said. “No, I don’t know that.” He looked up at Relius, and his eyes were tight with suspicion. “There were four barons my master hadn’t subborned at Ephrata. Two he did not execute because he thought it would take more time to wear down their houses—because both men had strong, grown sons who were equally loyal to the queen and whose loyalty would only be strengthened by losing their fathers to the Medes. He killed Baron Critias because his son was so young that his mother would have to serve as regent, and he thought Lady Critia, being a woman, would be easy to manipulate. And then Baron Orutus…”

Relius’s heart dropped.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Nothing. I speak of whispers only. Nahuseresh seemed to think that the baron’s younger brother might not be so grieved at his death. Not to the point where he would arrange for it on his own power—only that he might be grateful. And gratitude can make people suggestible.”

Relius reflected on this new piece of information like a bad tooth—prodding it from every angle, even though it brought discomfort. He moved pieces around the board for a few minutes.

“You said Melheret and Nahuseresh were not on good terms?”

“Not when Melheret left the Mede Empire. My master—”

“Nahuseresh,” Relius corrected, and Kamet looked taken aback.

“Nahuseresh,” he repeated. He swallowed. “Nahuseresh was still smarting from the humiliation of his defeat. Melheret had been a mentor, once, but there was a distinct feeling that his career ought to be on the decline and Nahuseresh’s on the rise, and he did not appreciate the change in circumstances.”

“So if Orutus were—suggestible—to the Medes, you think it unlikely Melheret would be the point of contact?”

“Very much so—I think it unlikely they would rely on any ambassador directly. Even last time we were here, _I_ was the one to make most of the initial contacts, because a slave talking to servants is not as obvious. And I presume the queen has more spies of her own on the master of spies than anyone else.”

Relius flapped his hand, a half-hearted gesture meant to convey that he wouldn’t go so far as to talk about the queen’s spies with someone who remained staunchly neutral with regards to Attolia—and that in any case, he wasn’t entirely sure. When he was secretary of the archives, he had acted as though he were being spied on as a matter of course. He had not deliberately looked for the queen’s spies because he didn’t want to exploit their vulnerabilities, even subconsciously.

“I hope I am not disturbing you in your retirement.”

“If what you say is true, I don’t think I can go on retired.”

“I never saw hints of Orutus in any correspondence, never heard his name after we left Ephrata. I only ask because I know that you were considered almost above suspicion, at least as much as a master of spies can ever be, and I would not have thought Orutus met that threshold.”

“There is very little precedent in Attolia for a spymaster who is _beneficial_ to the crown,” Relius said with a sigh. “It has been many generations since this land knew true peace. And are you going to tell me that subjecting ourselves to the Mede Empire would spread tranquility over our peninsula?”

“No,” Kamet said casually. He moved a piece. He had improved a lot in a short time, and although he had not yet actually captured very many of Relius’s stones, he had woven a fine net, and it was tightening. “There is only so much humiliation the Empire can take. If they were to conquer you now, they would bleed the kingdom dry and salt the earth for good measure.”

“It is so pleasant, to spend time with a fellow optimist,” Relius said dryly, and Kamet laughed.

***

A week later, Relius went for a stroll in the gardens after breakfast, a habit Teleus had nagged him into out of concern for his health after his imprisonment—the man was a fanatic for fresh air. He had a book he was eager to get back to, a recent translation of a Mede history into demotic, and he traversed his usual route quickly, only to pause at the sight of a woman in a chartreuse dress, sitting on a bench beneath a willow tree. She was alone, and very clearly waiting.

“Heiro,” he said, surprised. She smiled.

“Good morning.”

“Good morning. May I join you?”

“Of course. I was hoping to find you here, as a matter of fact—I have finished your book.”

“Ah.” She reached into the netted bag beside her and withdrew a slim volume of Ferrian proverbs that Relius had given her over a year ago—when she had first begun to strike up a friendship with the king, and he had decided it was wise to foster a relationship of his own. He had not intended it to be a loan, but the return provided an excellent excuse for this meeting. “Did you find it instructive?”

“Very. Especially the section on choosing one’s companions carefully.”

“Yes, that would be valuable advice for any young lady.”

“Speaking of which—have you heard anything about my sister’s latest flirtation?”

“I have not.”

“To tell you true, I’m not sure exactly who it is, or how serious. But she has been very interested in ships lately, and I have an inkling she dined once with Pegistus.”

“The admiral of the navy?” Relius frowned.

“The very same.”

“And have you told this to Baron Orutus?” Relius asked in an undertone, scanning the path before them. The gardens seemed empty, but he did not trust them. The hedges were thick, and he could think of at least one or two individuals who often hid among them.

“I have not. I did not want to cause needless heartbreak.”

“And what do you mean by that, my dear?”

Heiro turned her cornflower-blue eyes on him, the picture of innocence.

“I mean that Themis has made a point of dancing with Baron Orutus at every private party they’ve met at in the last few months. She always _said_ she didn’t like him, but if he was very fond of her, I wouldn’t like to cause him any pain.”

“I see,” Relius said slowly. “Yes. That is very kind of you, Heiro. I think you are quite right.”

“You do? Oh, I’m so glad.”

She put her hand over his with a warm smile, and Relius was compelled to smile back, despite the worries spinning around his mind.

“And what romances have _you_ been indulging, hm?”

“Oh,” Heiro said, averting her gaze.

“Now, now,” he teased. “Don’t tell me that so lovely a girl has been entirely bereft of suitors—I can’t believe _everyone_ in court so stupid.”

“People have been leaving me earrings,” she admitted, chagrined. “Because of what I said to the king on his birthday. Which is really very silly, because _he_ is the one who likes earrings especially, not me. And anyway I don’t see why people feel the need to intrude on a private joke.”

“Yes, that is both rude and poorly-reasoned.”

A flash of movement caught his eye, and he turned to see Kamet stepping off the path with a greeting on his lips. Between the dappled lighting and the color of Heiro’s dress, he evidently hadn’t seen her. He hesitated when he did, and then looked very deliberately at their joined hands before bowing and attempting to demure.

“So serious, Kamet!” Relius said. “Did you have something important to discuss?”

“Some minor business,” Kamet replied, waving a hand. “Not important enough to intrude on pleasure.”

“Ah, but Heiro is here for business, too.”

“Is my company not a pleasure, sir?” Heiro said. A more transparently artful woman—her sister, for example—would have simpered and batted her eyelashes. Heiro tilted her head just slightly to look up at him from beneath them. She had reddish-blonde hair and very fair eyelashes, and the effect was infinitely more charming. Relius kissed her hand in acknowledgement of a masterful performance.

“His Majesty has called Heiro the most dangerous person at court,” he told Kamet as they stood.

“Relius, do not shame me in front of Kamet Kingnamer,” she chastised, and Kamet ducked his head in embarrassment.

“I promise, Lady Heiro, I take the king’s compliment in the spirit with which it was intended.”

She laughed and said farewell, overwhelming Kamet’s protests, and the two men sat on the bench together.

“Hm,” Kamet said delicately.

“Keep your _hm._ Heiro’s father used to beat her for interfering with his plot to make her sister the king’s mistress. She flirts to make a point.”

“So?”

“So. Were you looking for me?” he asked, changing the subject. “We were overdue for dinner, anyway.”

“Yes,” Kamet said, briefly worrying his lower lip with his teeth. “I thought this would look more accidental. Melheret has a larger contingent here than Nahuseresh did, and…”

“I see.”

He waited for Kamet to continue, but the young man was silent. A few loose leaves had fallen on the bench. He picked one up and held it in his lap, tearing it into smaller segments.

“I think it is time for me to go.”

“Oh.” Relius sighed. “I thought you might say that.”

“I’m sorry. You have been… a very good friend to me, and I do not mean to be ungrateful, but—just because I am free does not mean that my life is my own. And that is a freedom I do not think I can find in Attolia. Not like this.”

“I understand. Will you not wait for Costis?” he asked, before he could let propriety muzzle him. They had danced around the subject for weeks. Relius was not stupid, and Kamet did not do him the discourtesy of pretending he was.

“I can’t,” he said in a small voice. “In any case, I… I don’t think there is anything to be waiting for.”

“That I don’t believe.”

“I can’t wait,” Kamet repeated, and Relius bowed his head in silent concession. “I thought I might go north—to Melenze. I know the magus of Sounis has a decent opinion of the country, and hopefully communication will be more reliable than if I were to go further onto the continent. That is—if—”

“Kamet,” Relius said, letting his fondness bleed into his voice. “I will admit to being selfish—I, too, would prefer for you to go somewhere within a letter’s easy reach. Although,” he said slowly. “I think… it would be best if you did not publicize your location too much.”

“Yes. That was why I wanted to speak to you. I wanted to ask your help evading Melheret’s spies.”

“Of course. And you recall our conversation the other day—about some of the acquaintances you made upon your first visit to Attolia?” Kamet nodded silently. “Yes. Perhaps I am overly cautious—but I think I will send my own messengers. Others from the peninsula may very well wish to continue their acquaintance through conventional means, and I leave it to you to decide if that is a risk you want to accept. Regardless, _I_ will feel more at ease knowing you and I need not rely on others to maintain our friendship.”

Kamet smiled to himself. He tipped his hand and let the little bits of leaf flutter to the ground, and brushed the remainder off his tunic. He folded one hand over the other.

“Moteshakeram, daya,” he said, tilting his head. Relius hesitated, recognizing the Mede but slow in understanding.

“Thank you…?”

“Uncle.”

“ _Uncle?”_ he repeated, miffed. “Am I so old to you?”

“There is no age requirement to be an uncle—I know a man in the Mede empire who is two years older than his uncle.”

“It is not the kind of thing you call a _young_ man. What about ‘brother’?”

“Entirely wrong,” sniffed the translator, straightening his shoulders and lifting his chin in the air. “Brother implies kinship, but also equality—not necessarily respect. Which is fitting for a relationship in which participants are equally likely to provide advice and to encourage each other in their most foolish actions for sport. Grandfather is also inappropriate, implying too _much_ sagacity and hierarchal distance, and with a greater emphasis placed on age. ‘Uncle’ as is clearly the best option for one who has offered kindness and wisdom at a time when I was badly in need of both.”

There was no point asking if Kamet had a blood uncle, or a mother or father or brothers or sisters. Family was a luxury often denied to slaves, and one so young, with such a grasp of languages, could not have been enslaved at an age where he would have strong memories of the past. _Possibly_ if he were a Mede, from an educated family that had fallen on hard times or into the emperor’s disfavor, but not a foreigner. He had been stolen young and trained extensively. His whole life had been in preparation for spycraft and statecraft, not for love or friendship or happiness. No wonder he had been so lost.

Relius had no family, either. His mother had succumbed to fever when he was a young child, his father an infected wound two weeks into the reign of the new queen. Relius had clawed for every scrap of power he could get in Baron Eucles’s household, in fierce competition with both his father and his half-brother, neither of whom would even acknowledge the connection. The double blows of his father’s death and his baron’s treason in the civil war had finally driven him out, to the capital to see the queen, and the rest was history.

Together they had put down the rebellion. The Guard and the new-model army were still a work in progress, and if Relius’s brother had been content to be a soldier, willing to forsake his baron and pledge himself in service to the queen, he might have lived. But his ambition had served him too well, and at war’s end he had found himself the most trusted advisor of a traitor. He had gone to his knees and begged. Cried. Called Relius ‘brother’ and invoked the memory of their late father. The queen—so young, with a face that still occasionally betrayed a hint of doubt—looked at Relius.

“My Queen,” he had said. “If you pardon people because you love them, someday someone that you love will betray you, and all of Attolia with you.”

It was summer, and even so, Relius shivered.

“So,” he said. “Not ‘brother’ but not ‘grandfather.’ I will be content.”

“Good.”

“Write me when you arrive—wherever you are going, won’t you? To let me know you’ve gotten there safely.”

“Yes.”

“And when you have…” He hesitated. “I think I am going to take a little trip to the country. To speak to some of the relatives and neighbors of the secretary of the archives, and see what light they might shed on your little theory.”

“I think that is wise.”

“I will await your letter, though, so that I can keep an eye on things and be of assistance if it is needed. We would not want this journey to be as difficult as the last one.”

“No,” Kamet said emphatically. “We would not.”

***

Relius was fully aware that the care he took in his appearance might veer into vanity on occasion—always, to ask certain high-ranking members of the Guard—and as such tried to avoid criticizing vanity in others. It made it difficult, though, having only one mirror in his room, especially when his bedfellows had long hair that needed to be _just so._

“I saw you have a meeting with the king this afternoon,” Ion said, in the second full minute of brushing out his hair.

“Yes,” Relius said. He fished around in his jewelry box for the emerald earrings the king had given him for his birthday. He suspected they had not been purchased lawfully, which he took to be a sign of the king’s affection, and it wouldn’t hurt to have him in a good mood. “I want to talk to him about Kamet. He’s planning on leaving soon, and I think the treasury owes him a little more than a thank you and a fare-thee-well. And you can keep that to yourself, thank you very much,” he said significantly.

Ion huffed and turned his face away as he began to braid his hair. Of the king’s attendants, Ion had undoubtedly been among the most eager to seek redemption following the debacle with Sejanus. He had performed all duties diligently, defended the king at every opportunity—even ended his wooing of Baron Efkis’s daughter when the girl informed Melheret about a clandestine meeting in the garden, allowing the ambassador to meet with the king of Sounis. No doubt Relius deserved the sour look, but it was not meant to be a slight against Ion in particular. The realization that he could no longer trust _himself_ had not had a positive effect on his ability to trust others.

“The king will be disappointed,” the attendant said. “That’s one scheme come to naught.”

“Disappointed but not surprised. He can’t have expected Kamet to stay here very long.”

“No, but long enough for Costis to return, at least.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s only Hilarion’s theory, really,” Ion shrugged. “He thinks His Majesty was doing a bit of match-making. Letting them both wallow in heartbreak for a while. Then again, if Kamet thinks he’s been dropped without so much as a word, it’s no wonder he’d be ready to move on too quickly for it to work.”

Relius froze as something clicked into place. He turned.

“You mean—the king sent Costis away _and didn’t tell Kamet?”_

“No,” Ion said, amused, as he swung the finished braid over his shoulder and glanced at Relius’s face. “He told Teleus not to make a fuss over Costis’s absence so he wouldn’t find out. Why didn’t _you_ tell him, if you thought it was so important?”

“I thought he knew already! Oh, that treacherous little snake,” he sighed. “May he live long and be blessed by the gods.”

Ion chuckled. He brushed a hand across Relius’s shoulder in a friendly gesture as he drifted out of the bedroom. It was still early, but he needed to be back in the king’s chambers before His Majesty woke—assuming they didn’t cross paths on the way there. Unexpectedly, though, he lingered for a moment by Relius’s desk, on which he had left the book from Heiro.

“Is this Lady Heiro’s?” he asked.

“Yes. I loaned it to her, and she recently gave it back. You are acquainted?”

“A little. She has visited the king, you know, and I saw her reading this once.”

There was a wistfulness in his voice, and Relius snorted.

“Don’t tell me you sent her earrings, Ion.”

“I thought they were very nice,” he said gloomily. “My sister said so. But she wouldn’t even accept them.”

Relius took pity on him.

“Heiro is very fond of embroidery. A few yards of good muslin would serve you better than jewelry.”

“Truly?”

“Truly, and I will do you the courtesy of _not_ informing her that you needed my help to figure that out. Now wipe that silly look off your face or the king is going to comment on it.”

“You are a prince among men,” Ion said with a sweeping bow, and he disappeared down the corridor.

Relius shook his head and stood by his desk, mulling over all he had learned this morning—before breakfast, even. He opened the book of proverbs and flipped through it until he found one that struck him as especially fitting: _There is no such thing as a wise man in love._

***

Relius talked to the king. The king talked to Kamet. Presumably the king talked to Costis, as well, because the young guard returned to the palace late one night and presented himself to Teleus the very next morning to apologetically explain that he wouldn’t be returning to the Guard just yet. Teleus had been very gracious, he assured Relius later, in wishing him a good journey. As for Relius, he had the privilege of being the only one in the palace—aside from the king and queen—who knew precisely when Kamet was leaving. Given that he was the only one who could move throughout the city without dragging a half-dozen attendants in his wake, he was the one who escorted Kamet out of the palace and saw him safely to the dock.

“So,” he said when they had found the correct ship. “A longer journey than you had expected, but not so long as your last.”

“If I am lucky.”

“Yes. You will send me your narrative, when you have finished?”

“If I can. If Attolia is still free, and there is still space in your library.”

“I will do my best.”

There was an unexpected awkwardness between them, as there had not been in many weeks—they did not know if this was a permanent farewell or a temporary one, and if the friendship they had developed so recently required the heartfelt conversation that a permanent parting demanded. But there was no time for dithering, and Relius allowed his instincts to take over. He wrapped Kamet in a tight embrace. The young man was startled, at first, but for a moment his hands rested on Relius’s back, and a small sigh escaped his lips.

Relius drew back and kissed his forehead.

“Journey in your gods’ favor, Kamet,” he said, startled to hear a rough note in his own voice.

“Thank you, uncle,” Kamet said with a smile. He dropped his gaze and closed his eyes. “Relius…” He looked up, and his voice became soft. “Truly. Thank you.”

“You are more than welcome. Write to me when you settle in—I want to hear how you fare.”

 _Both of you,_ he wanted to add, but if the king could keep a secret for almost two months, Relius could keep it for a week. Kamet promised to write, and then he mounted the gangplank, and Relius turned to leave. He was slow, moving through the city, lost in his thoughts—although not so lost that he didn’t see Costis weaving through traffic, heading to the docks with all haste. They were on opposite sides of the street and Costis didn’t see his wave, but Relius smiled to himself.

He returned to the palace grounds and went straight to Teleus’s office. It was empty, and he stood looking out the window for a few minutes until Teleus returned, hair still wet from the baths. No doubt he had given some lieutenants new bruises on the training grounds to make up for the loss of his favorite. He stepped up behind Relius, wrapped his arms around his waist, and propped his chin on his shoulder.

“Companionship and affection, beloved?” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“Mm.”

Guards passed by the window below, coming and going from the baths, the mess, calling for friends and jostling each other, complaining and cursing and sometimes dropping their voices after a fretful glance at the captain’s window above. Relius’s lips twitched.

“Are you disappointed?”

“Conflicting loyalties,” Relius admitted. “As a servant of Attolia, I am glad to have them safeguarding her interests in a place where they are needed. As a friend, I am glad they are together. As myself…”

“You were fond of him. You saw yourself in him, and you are sad to see him go.”

“Yes,” Relius said with a heavy sigh. He tilted his head, resting it against Teleus’s. Teleus kissed his cheek.

“It won’t be forever. They’ll be back.”

“We’ll see.”

  
  


***

  
  


“Teleus.”

He had been watching the queen. Out of habit, more than anything else—Teleus knew deep in his bones that she was safe here, dancing on the roof with her king, but he was not in the habit of trusting his own senses, and so still he watched. At the sound of his name, his eyes shifted. Kamet was dressed in a blue as dark as the night behind them; were it not for the way the torches gilded his warm skin, he might have been a shadow. He held out a hand.

“Will you dance with me?”

 _So, so, so,_ Teleus thought with a hint of wry humor. _See, Teleus? You are an old man now, offered pity-dances by the young. How does it feel?_

“I think you have a better partner waiting, Kamet.”

Kamet looked over his shoulder, and Teleus followed his gaze to see Costis dancing with a small blonde woman who threw herself through the pattern with no regards to his attempted guidance.

“Aris sent his sister a letter when Costis came back for me—discreetly, before you ask. She and her husband have been in the city for months, praying for his safety, while I was keeping him all to myself. Won’t you dance with me?”

Grief stuck in his throat. He remembered, a lifetime ago, an afternoon when Relius visited his office, back when such a visit was so unusual as to be worthy of comment. The spymaster had wandered around, examining things, making dry observations and doing his best to distract Teleus from his paperwork, and at one point said something offhand about how Teleus never attended the public dinners, except as a guard on duty.

_“And why would I want to do that?” he dismissed._

_“The food is excellent,” Relius shrugged. “As is the company—I am always there. And the dancing.”_

_“Hmph.”_

_“You don’t dance?”_

_“I dance.”_

_“Country dances,” Relius guessed shrewdly. “The kinds with plenty of boot-stamping and the name is something like ‘chasing the pig.’ Not the kind of thing one does at court.”_

_“So.”_

_“Then I will teach you.”_

Over his protests, Relius hauled him to his feet and started to guide him through one of the more elegant and fiddly dances favored by the esteemed patronoi of Attolia. He critiqued Teleus’s rhythm, complained about him stomping too hard, and questioned his ability to fight if he couldn’t manage a simple dance, until Teleus had shut him up with a kiss.

Looking back, Teleus suspected that Relius had been teasing him to provoke that very reaction. They had danced together a handful of times in the years following, and he had never complained.

“No.” His voice rasped. He swallowed and looked up at Kamet, whose forehead creased with pity. “No,” he repeated, quietly. “Thank you.”

But Kamet did not walk away. He leaned against the crenellation beside Teleus.

“I hope I am not intruding,” he said slowly. “I don’t mean to…”

“Intruding on what?” Teleus interrupted, nonplussed.

“On your grief. I knew Relius for so little a time—I won’t speak of him if it would bring you pain.”

What wouldn’t bring him pain, Teleus wondered.

“Say what you will.”

Kamet nodded silently. The music struck a new chord and there was a cheer as some of the dancers were flung into the air by their partners. Kamet cleared his throat.

“When I first arrived here, I had no faith. No faith that Attolia could remain free, no faith that I could truly find any love or friendship here—no faith that I deserved either. Relius had faith in me, and even though I left, I was deeply grateful for that. I _am_ deeply grateful. I intend to remain here and do whatever I can to prove worthy of that faith, and if I can offer you my help in any way, I hope you will tell me.”

Teleus was watching him now, not the queen. Kamet had smiled when the queen led him onto the roof, and again when Costis guided him through the dance, but he was not smiling now. He looked tired and sad. He may not have known Relius for nearly as long, Teleus reflected, but his grief was even fresher.

“Did you know it was Relius who started that _absurd_ name you bear?” he asked, his lips twisting in something that might have been a smile.

“What?”

“Who-Called-Eugenides-the-Great-King. That was him being subtle—or, I don’t know, appealing to your vanity. The kind of name meant to end up in a history book, isn’t it?”

Kamet laughed softly.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t know that. Something else I never thanked him for.”

“Not everything deserves thanks. You don’t need to flatter him.”

He realized, belatedly, his error in tense, but Kamet did not point it out. They stood together in a companionable silence for a moment, until the music began to die out and there was a happy rush of dancers changing partners. Costis’s sister stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and jumped to find the king by her side, offering her his hand. Costis handed her over with a stern word, and Teleus pressed his lips together to hide his amusement.

“He was very fond of you, Kamet,” he said suddenly, and Kamet startled.

“Thank you.”

“Costis,” Teleus called, and the soldier appeared before him with alacrity.

“Sir?”

“Tomorrow morning, you will be back in my Guard if I have to drag you through the barracks by the ear.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, poorly disguising a grin.

“Tonight…” Teleus jerked his head at the man beside him. “Dance with Kamet. He has already been rejected once tonight, and I don’t think it agrees with him.”

Costis’s face softened. He gave a salute and proffered his arm to Kamet, and together they rejoined the crowd on the roof. Kamet was not a bad dancer, but he was hampered by lack of familiarity with the steps. He stumbled, and Costis looked like he was trying not to laugh as he offered instruction. Kamet ignored it in favor of dragging him down for a kiss, and then they were lost to the crowd of people. There was a tremendous crush of dancers tonight, despite the cold and the unusual venue. Even Pheris was venturing out, he saw, coaxed by a tall, serious-faced woman he did not recognize.

Teleus tipped his head up to the sky, to the stars dotting the endless blue and the moon hanging heavy on the horizon. He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

“So, here we all are,” he murmured, to himself and not to himself. “And where are you?”


End file.
